


and that's the way we get by

by towfriends



Series: teenage dream, forever young [1]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: F/M, drunk texts??, i dont know what else to tag, in this edition of teens being vague af, team canton romanticization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-20 05:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14253903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/towfriends/pseuds/towfriends
Summary: Her green eyes push through the fog. It is enough for him to stop flailing to whatever raunchy hip-hop song is playing.ortexts from last night: sixteen-year-old scott moir with a nokia edition





	and that's the way we get by

**Author's Note:**

> obligatory what am i doing writing rpf note, timeline disclaimer, et cetera.

**2003**

  


Fifteen unread text messages blur under the vision of barely awake eyes. Light creeps past haphazard shutters. It sheds rays of fire on splayed magazines and photographs all over the varnished floor. He swipes a hand across his face to wave the morning grime away.

The first four are from unsaved numbers. As he sits up, a cold chill seeps through his naked chest. Outside, the sun continues to rise - deceptive. Heady taste of teenage punch dries his mouth. After reaching for his morning water on the bedside table, his throat feels like a flooded desert.

_hey i had a rlly gud tym last nyt ;)_

He sees a too tight tracksuit and glitter lipgloss. He rubs his shoulder, stinging of French manicure sinking into its flesh. His hand shifts past messy bed hair to the slight swelling in the back of his head, and he hears someone call his name. Quinn, he thinks her name is. (It's not. It's Tessa, asking if they could play Dance Dance Revolution.)

_hiii u better call me! c u in school!!_

His eyes dart to the calendar hanging above a dresser littered with last week's laundry. Saturday - with training scrawled below it, and all the other dates on the page. He looks down in relief and sees the jumbled writing on his forearm. A number has already faded in sleep. If it's a six or nine, he will never know. (He doesn't want to, either.)

_are we still on 4 the nxt day??_

Swinging his legs off the twin bed, he stands up and steps on a toy - an action figure. Expletives spew out of his parched lips as he balances himself on a foot. He hears his host family downstairs. They enjoy daily breakfast television over bacon and eggs, and he holds onto a plastered wall. It's beige and plain, as he is but a mere guest. His head follows with a light thud, as he cannot figure out who this person is. Oh well.

_tnx for the dance i still owe u a drink_

Both of his feet settle on the floor, and the expanse aches. It'll be gone by the time he gets to training. He sees a short skirt and kitten heels and his hips jerk in reflex. He bites his bottom lip, feels a bruise, and his mind takes him to the sight of Tessa dancing with Meryl? in the other side of the room and all its pristine furniture debauched by kids who don't know the difference between cherry and mahogany. Her white sneakers get splashed by idiots swigging full solo cups. She looks at him for one second, but it is enough for him to stop flailing to whatever raunchy hip-hop song is playing. He dives headfirst into Charlie's parents' pool instead.

He deletes all four messages.

  


-

  


By the time he's gone downstairs, backpack in tow, his host family has dissipated into their varying activities. As an athlete, he understands the importance of routine. How repeated actions can keep one's self in tune with the body and prevent it from being stagnant. As a high school student, he cannot fathom why would parents subject their children to grueling Kumon tutorials on top of homework. With his head still pounding, he looks at his phone again - the next two unread messages are from his mother.

_Son, congratulations on the math award. Don't exert yourself too much though, you still need energy for the ice! Love you!_

He rummages the front pocket of his bag and pulls out a flimsy gold-painted tin medal. Math has always been his favourite subject for one of the same reasons he loves skating. The precision of how it has to be exact to work. Processes may vary, but simplicity lies in a single correct answer. Still, he doesn't think he's gonna stay in the club for too long. They've already been looking at brochures for distance learning. Junior Grand Prix season is in full swing. Fourth place in Zagreb offers a more appealing deal than a winning math meet. The glide of his blade has brought him more pleasure than numbers on a chalkboard (in more ways than one).

_Also, don't forget to ask Tessa if she needs anything._

He doesn't. He grabs a bushel of bananas and turns on the television to last night's hockey game. (He was supposed to watch it live, but alas, Ben had other plans.) He has never forgotten to ask Tessa if she needs anything. Her standard reply is, No, I'm good, Scott, even though he notes how her lips tighten on the edges. He doesn't want to pry. He already sees the way she looks out the window every time they drive into the states. Her head cranes beyond maple trees and she doesn't care if her auburn hair tangles itself in the wind. Sometimes he thinks she wants to fly with it.

But he also sees her eyes narrow whenever a patrol officer raises brows in question. How she, at fourteen, can say: He is sixteen years old, he is qualified to drive a car, and we are athletes who train in Michigan. While he, the actual sixteen-year-old with a driver's license, grips the steering wheel, vice-like, as his knuckles turn white. It's the sharp tone she uses whenever anyone tries to underestimate her - their coaches, whenever they'd tell her it's okay she missed the cue on twizzles; some girls at the rink, whenever they'd gossip about her being a prude; her own damn mother, whenever her commitment to skating (and him) is questioned. She retorts in a voice cooler than the ice she moves in - laced in venom more mature than her age. In those moments, she looks like she doesn't need anything at all.

Leafs win. 2 to 1.

  


-

  


His car is Danny's old pick up truck that he's always ridden shotgun on before he got it for himself. He's expressed his desire to buy brand new with his growing earnings, but his parents have shot him down every time. It is the plain tradition for a first car to be a hand-me-down. It'll keep you humble, he hear his father grumble. Keep all that swagger on the ice. Tell that to Charlie, who went to the dealership last week, or Meryl, who got hers after repeated viewings of The Real World. He still can't believe Tessa's taken a liking to it.

("It's like chocolate - it's a guilty pleasure."

"Now see, you don't have to be guilty when you eat chocolate. You're perfectly fine the way you are."

Her lips curl a little; she takes his hand for another lap. His peripheral wanders to the twigs sitting idly by the boards. His eyes remain on Tessa as they go over the Russian step sequence. Suzanne's choreography flows heavier under Marina's supervision.)

The engine roars and he thanks Danny, wherever he is, for keeping it well-maintained. He throws his bag in the fuzzy backseat. A checkered picnic blanket lays in disarray, along with hockey gear strangely swept to one side. He covers the mess with the cloth and shakes his head, marveling at his driving skills. There will be no partying before next competition's banquet. (Except there will be.)

He checks his phone as he stops by a red light. Three unread messages from meryl beevis. He squints while editing her last name.

_moir its windy 2morrow!_

_already txted charlie and tessie but ur the one who doesnt care about my reminders >: u suck sometimes_

_wear a jacket!_

Meryl has relegated herself as the mother hen since they all first met (formally). As the oldest among the four of them, she takes the role with almost too much pride. She says Tanith is too busy winning medals to hang out with them often, much to Charlie's chagrin. She reminds them to stop, look, and listen, before crossing the street across the mall. She carries a first aid kit of Advil, water, granola bars, Tums, mouthwash, chapstick, eyedrops, and sunnies. It's not only for herself. He's used it the most, probably. Every other day, she brings a six-pack of yogurt bottles in varying flavours. She gives two of each to him and Charlie, and only one for her and Tessa. He always gives his second to Tess before dropping her off at her host family's. She always drinks it and leaves his car with a smile.

_mer we train at an ice rink jackets r essential hows ur hangover by the wayyyy :P_

  


-

  


Tessa's host mom has coiffed platinum blonde hair that bobs on her neck. From constant visits, he knows her crimson lipstick gets retouched every five minutes. She's holding a tray of freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies when she opens the door for him. She's still getting ready, she chirps, like the wrens that hang around the white picket fence. Come on in. His shoes squeak under the waxed carpet; the vacuum's still out of the open coat closet. He takes Tessa's jacket from the furthest corner so Meryl won't chide him later. He finds his way to the living room's velvet couch. He has four unread messages from chalres butthead. With a snicker, he changes it back to ac white.

_did ur pool soaked ass realy hav 2 go knight in shininy armour for tessy tess bro_

_thank tanith 4 being older_

_shes only 4teen bro + plus u said so urself u dont wanna be wierd but alias_

_dizzzzclamer im only doing this cuz u told me to so 2 quote arvil lavinge y u gotta go n make tings so cimpkxsyrd_

His cap falls to the floor as he leans his head back on the couch. His mind goes on playback, like whenever they scrutinize every detail of a performance. After pulling himself out of the swimming pool to indistinguishable hoots, he stands still to admire how the lights illuminate the water below. In a blue mirror, he sees a happy, albeit disheveled boy, with cloudy eyes and a dopey grin. Under a starry night sky and the influence of cheap alcohol, Canton begins to feel like home. Naive stupor breaks with the crackle of broken glass followed by shrieks. He stumbles/runs inside, dripping chlorine in his path. Meryl and Tessa are talking heated against the dummies who spilled their drinks on their sneakers. The aggressors are a little bit taller, but they're just some kids from school. He's the athlete here.

The bass from vibrating speakers fades away as soaked shoes squelch in place of filthy thumps. He goes through a pond of people - somebody's hair hits his face - he shrugs it off as he lasers on the two girls, now pointing their fingers and motioning wildly. The other party opens their mouths wider - he can't make out what they're saying, he only hears a noise. A paper plate of jello shots pass in front of him - he takes two. Shaking his head, he walks, and walks, until he reaches the corner of the room and -

Crash.

The bruise on his lip isn't from some random unimportant makeout (or maybe not just from it). He cracks his knuckles and revels in its punchy sound. He doesn't recall any damage on his face, save for someone drawing a smiley on his chin, and that zit beneath his nose that won't go away. Anticipation in facing those dumbfounded idiots on Monday morning makes him grimace. The faint tang of blood tastes sweeter.

"Scott," Tessa squeaks from behind him, and he stands up quick. She's holding out his baseball cap. He takes it and puts it on backward.

"Hey, Tutu," he replies, handing her the periwinkle jacket. Her hair is in a tight ponytail, and her iron pressed clothes mock his wrinkled ensemble. He dusts off invisible dirt from denim jeans.

"Meryl text you?" she asks, a slight smile on her face as she wears it.

He nods.

They don't talk anymore after that.

  


-

  


She's never been a morning person, even as kids. It's not fair, Scott, it's not fair that we have to be at the rink at six because we're the baby team, she says at seven years old. Another seven years and a start time two hours later definitely help, even if it's only on weekends. It's established that she controls the radio to appease her dislike of the morn. He stays quiet when she skips the country station, and he tries not to sigh when she squeals over You Make My Dreams Come True. He's supposed to focus on the road, anyway.

She stays in her seat when they reach his parking spot. The music halts when he turns off the ignition, leaving them with radio silence. From the rear-view mirror, he sees her looking at him with the same eyes that set their competition aflame. There's an unspoken softness beneath, judging by the way her head tilts further to the headrest. Slight red colours her pale cheeks, all the more for him not to turn his head to her. Her pink lips part, dangerous and bare, but a puff of air comes out instead of words.

"I'll see you inside?" He knows that's not what she was supposed to say as she gets out of the car. The keychains on her gym bag dangle as she skips. One of them is of Marvin the Martian, to match the body pillow he's given to her eons before. He remembers he has more unread messages.

_Hello Scotty, thank you for taking care of my daughter. But you must also take care of yourself. Have a good night._

Well. Kate's always been succinct. (He slams the car door a tad harder.)

  


-

  


"Dude, what did Tessa say?" is the first statement Charlie greets him with when he enters the change room. His glasses perch on his nose like an intrusive teacher.

"What do you mean?" he asks as he opens his locker. It's filled with photos of him and Tess, and him and Tess only. At a fair in Ilderton, where he got her flowers from a shrub. At the CN Tower, where she's holding onto him like her life depends on it (she's said it did). At their first competition in Kelowna, where she's written, in perfect cursive: we'll drink wine here when we get older. What kind of refined child talks about wine?

"Everyone's talking about what you did," Charlie answers. He's wearing contacts now. It is unclear whether his eyes are red from putting it on or if it's an after-effect of too much jungle juice. "She must've been shaking. You were like, the same beast on the ice. Geez."

"Yeah?" he closes his locker shut, along with the hazy memories of last night. The moment his feet step inside Arctic Edge, skating takes its rightful place above all in his life. Skating and Tessa. The latter can pull him in either direction; she is the other half of his sport and is also the girl he's grown up with. Their lives intertwine more than the intricate spins they do on the ice. Charlie chuckles, patting his arm, and leaves without another word. It's a teetering that doesn't stop, him and Tess, and it is up to them both to find the balance.

His last unread message is from tessa :). She put in the smiley face herself. He skims the text before reading, and it wouldn't be Tessa if he doesn't have to scroll down.

_scoooott!! i cant believe u tackled the guys from the football team!! im fiiiine....meryl & and i were just telling them off for smashing charlies parents glass case of....i actually dunoo???? we just didnt want charlie to get in trouble :(( eh its his fault anyway xP u looked soooo goodo like u were soooo strong when u pined them to the ground and started punchin and been had to pull u offem i wonder, though, what would happen if i were really in trouble. would you do the same thing? i still dont know. thank u for bringing me to my first big party and back!! dont forget to pick me up tomorrow!_

He arrives at the rink with a stupid grin on his face, and her pink guards are already placed parallel. He throws his with abandon. He joins her in the ice to stretch, marveling at her perfect dancer's posture. Her taut back ripples, goosebumps rise on lean arms, her craning neck resembles a swan. How lucky is he that she ditched the ballet.

"So....somebody sent me a drunk text last night," he starts, and he notices that the blush hasn't left her cheeks. Her eyes shift down as they squat. He clears his throat. "I mean, are you feeling okay? Do you need anything?" 

"No, I'm good, Scott." She uses his shoulders to support in extending her legs, and his breath hitches. Quinn or whoever's rough digging is nothing compared to this. Porcelain hands can only bring angel touches. This - this is why he left her with the girls last night, why he let Charlie drag him from one stupid drinking game to the next. Tessa's young fingers are more potent than any ill-thought combinations of poison liquid. Another vivid detail clears, and he hisses. She's the one who marked his face with Meryl's eyeliner after Ben patched him up with an actual first aid kit. "You know, I only had one cup." She's still not looking at him.

He thinks of his reply to Charlie's texts: _its not that complicated (whats complicated is having a crush on a potential rival)_

It's so much more than that.

**Author's Note:**

> this actually sprouted from a prompt list. he did win awards for math when he was younger. title from the spoon song. hope you like it?? (scurries away like scott meeting a mascot)


End file.
